


Sharp like Shattered Glass

by BoldlyGoingNowhereFast



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoldlyGoingNowhereFast/pseuds/BoldlyGoingNowhereFast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meeting with the Russian mob goes wrong, and James Wesley finds himself on the wrong side of a pair of angry Russian mobsters intent on hurting him to get to his employer. Wesley's hand-to-hand combat skills are lacking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp like Shattered Glass

**Author's Note:**

> I finally watched Daredevil, and while I adored all the characters, Wesley was definitely my favorite. We never really see him getting his hands dirty, and that's where the idea for this fic came from. This takes place right after Matt starts giving the Russian mob trouble.

Wesley has never much liked the Russians. They are emotional, quick to anger, and heavy-handed at best. They have always gotten the job done in the past, but recently, the man in the mask has been giving them trouble and putting kinks in operations that should have run without a problem. It is up to Wesley to warn them that if they don’t get themselves together, there will be consequences. How one man in a black mask is compromising the whole Russian operation, Wesley doesn’t know, but it’s his job to smooth out the wrinkles and make sure the Russians are doing everything they can to handle the issue.

Wesley steps into the dark of the warehouse, straightening his tie and hoping this won’t take too long. He has much more important things to do than babysit the Ranskahov brothers.

Moving through the murky darkness, Wesley makes his way to the two darkly clad figures standing in the greenish light coming in through a grimy window. Wesley understands the need for stealth, but the constant meetings in disgusting abandoned buildings can really wear down on a man. At this point, Wesley feels he will never be able to get the filth off of his skin.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greets as he steps up to the brothers who look just as ratty as they usually do. Thugs, the lot of them, honestly.

Vladimir and Anatoly stop their low conversation to look up at him and don’t offer a greeting in response. Wesley lifts his chin at their silent scrutiny.

“Are you here to tell us your employer is unhappy with the way we are running things?” Vladimir asks, tilting his head downward in a way he probably thinks looks mysterious.

“I am here to warn you that if you don’t get your act together, you will face my employer’s anger, and I can assure you, you will want to avoid it if you can.”

“Your employer’s anger, yes? If he is so ready to be angry at us, why doesn’t he show his face?”

Wesley sighs, looking away. “Call this a courtesy call, if you will. You don’t want to make my employer mad when he has put his trust… and his money, in you.”

He hears a low chuckle and glances back at the brothers who are now both looking at him with amusement written on their faces. He arches a brow.

“Tell me, did you bring bodyguards with you, Mister Wesley?”

Wesley had, in fact, brought two bodyguards, and they are currently lurking just out of sight. It doesn’t do to be needlessly careless, and Wesley doesn’t trust the Russians.

Two gunshots thunder through the room, followed by the sound of two bodies hitting the cement floor, and Wesley feels his skin crawl.

“We did too,” Anatoly says with a sharp smirk. “But you see, our bodyguards are in the rafters, and yours are…” He glances behind Wesley where the shots had been fired. “Dead.”

“You do realize that if you hit me, my employer will find out about it, and he will not be happy,” Wesley responds, keeping his face clear of any emotion except irritation.

“Perhaps it is time Fisk realizes that we are not playing games,” Vladimir says, stepping forward. “Maybe he will actually show his face in important meetings instead of sending his dog to speak to us.”

Wesley has walked himself right into a trap, and suddenly, the Ranskahov brothers are looking much more fierce than usual. In hindsight, he realized it was foolish not to carry a gun on him at all times, even with bodyguards present.

“Do you really think attacking me is going to get you what you want? The man in black is compromising your operations. Focus your energy on hitting him, instead.”

“We are doing business, no? We are sending a message, and if Fisk will not show his face, we will make him.”

Vladimir stands right in front of him, furious gaze meeting Wesley’s, and it is only the years of working for Fisk that keeps him from flinching or looking away. If Wesley is going to die here in this warehouse, he’d like to do so in a dignified manner.

“If you’re going to hit me, can you at least do it quickly? I have an appointment with more important people this evening that I’d really like to make.”

Wesley dodges Vladimir’s first swing at him, as ham-handed as it is, but he knows for certain that there is no way he’ll escape this unscathed. The Russians are brutal, and there are two of them. Wesley knows enough hand-to-hand combat to get by, but that’s never been a part of his job. It was always more of a precaution than anything else, and now he knows that it won’t be enough, not by a long shot.

Anatoly stays where he is, watching with his arms crossed as Vladimir advances on Wesley with clenched fists and a fierce expression. He manages to avoid four punches, but on the fifth, Vladimir catches his shoulder in a tight grip and delivers the punch across Wesley’s face.

Being punched while wearing glasses is undoubtedly worse than without them, and his only consolation is that Vladimir’s knuckles will be torn to shreds by the metal frames.

Wesley has never been beaten up before, not like this. Vladimir’s blows are unforgiving, and Wesley’s weak attempts at self-defense don’t hold up. This isn’t a strategy to get information out of him. This is nothing but brutality, nothing but a beating.

Vladimir grabs the knot of Wesley’s tie and throws him to the ground, knocking all of the breath out of his lungs as he sprawls onto the unforgiving floor.

“Do you want a turn, brother?” he asks, glancing over at Anatoly. Wesley’s blood drips sluggishly off his tattooed fist.  

Wesley takes the opening, throwing his weight forward at Vladimir’s legs, planning on sinking his teeth into Vladimir’s ankle.

He gets a hard kick in the ribs for his effort, which sends him collapsing on his back, wheezing. “Nice try,” Vladimir says through a twisted grin as Wesley coughs.

“You seem to be doing just fine,” responds Anatoly. “I will let you have your fun.”

Vladimir nods and leans down over Wesley, and even through the throbbing pain across his face and ribs, Wesley has the energy to hate the Russian’s haircut.  

“When Mr. Fisk finds you, he will have to peel you off the concrete floor,” he growls, hand fisting in Wesley’s hair and yanking his head back. “Not so smug now, are you?”

Wesley grunts at the knee pressing into his already bruised ribs. “You’re writing your own resignation letter,” Wesley spits, the coppery taste of blood thick in his mouth. “My employer will find you, one way or another.”

“How sad that Fisk’s right-hand man can’t even fend for himself.” Vladimir puts more weight on the knee pressing into Wesley’s ribs and he can’t help the low groan that escapes his lips. “Does he think you invincible? You don’t even have your own weapon.”

Wesley does, in fact, have a small knife stashed in the waistband of his pants, and it is when Vladimir’s hand closes around his throat that he pulls it out in one quick motion and plunges it into the side of the knee pressed into his chest, yanking it back out in the last second.

Vladimir screams and falls sideways, clutching his knee and Wesley scrambles to his feet as quickly as he can. He knows running away would be a bad choice with the guns undoubtedly pointed at his head, so he merely takes a moment to loosen his tie and wipe the blood out of his eyes. One side of the nosepiece of his glasses has broken off, leaving the metal arm to dig painfully into the bridge of his nose and the left lens has a spider web of cracks across it, but he can barely see without them so he elects to leave them on. He runs his tongue along his lower lip, which is split and making his chin tacky with blood.

Vladimir glares up at him, climbing unsteadily back to his feet with a snarl on his lips. “You little bitch.”

Wesley bares his teeth in a bloody facsimile of his usual smile. He knows he looks a wreck with his crooked tie, broken glasses, and blood smeared across his face, but he’s not going to take a beating lying down. “Fuck you.”

“You bring a knife to a fistfight?” Vladimir questions, eyeing the short knife coated in his blood.

“You forgot your knife?” Wesley shoots back.

Vladimir springs at him again, easily dodging the swing of the knife in Wesley’s grip. Oh, he is not prepared for this at all. When he gets out of here, if he gets out of here, he’s going to request to wear a Taser on his belt.

He gets one slash across Vladimir’s shoulder before the knife is knocked out of his grip by a painful twist of his arm that wrenches a whine from his throat. Vladimir’s breath ghosts across his face as he laughs at Wesley’s pain. The knife is turned at Wesley and shoved into stomach.

Wesley chokes at the searing pain, eyes widening and mouth falling open. Vladimir shoves him roughly backward, and Wesley once again falls to the concrete floor, hands moving to the fire in his stomach and breathing going erratic.

“Do you think he can handle any more, brother?” Anatoly asks, moving forward to stand next to his brother as they both gaze down at Wesley in detached curiosity. Wesley is somewhat offended they think so little of him, but the edges of his vision are fraying, so he supposes their lack of faith isn’t completely unfounded.

Vladimir examines the knife in his hand. “Maybe we should give him a scar to remember us by. A scar to mark that pretty face of his.”

Anatoly’s gaze is assessing. “Yes, I think we should.”

Vladimir drops down, and then he is straddling Wesley’s hips with all of his weight and holding the knife right in front of Wesley’s nose. “Any preference as to where it goes?”

Wesley swallows with a suddenly dry mouth, hands clamped on his stomach and remains silent, the ability for sarcasm and one liners drying up.

“No preference? Okay.” Vladimir yanks the glasses off his face and tosses them away to clatter against the floor.

The knife feels hot where it presses into the skin of his temple and draws slowly down the side of his face until it reaches his jaw. He would squirm, but Wesley doesn’t like the thought of that knife jerking across his skin. His face feels wet when Vladimir draws away and he closes his eyes when the blood starts to cloud his vision.

“Much better.” Vladimir’s weight lifts off of him, but Wesley doesn’t open his eyes. His face is on fire and his stomach is a heavy, thudding throb.

“Whether or not you’re alive by the time Fisk finds you, the message will be clear,” Anatoly says, pressing a foot into Wesley’s bruised ribs until he groans in pain. “Maybe he’ll keep a tighter leash on his lapdog from now on.”

There is the sound of footsteps leading away from him as the Russians leave him bleeding on the floor, but Wesley’s awareness of what is going on around him is fading. He curls on his side, making himself smaller and trying to keep his hands tight on the wound in his stomach, unable to spare much attention to the gash on his face. Everything is throbbing and he isn’t sure how much longer he’ll be conscious.

He reaches into his inner jacket pocket with a shaking, bloody hand and pulls out his phone. The screen has a crack across the front, but he manages to hit the first number on his contact list and listens to it dial.

Wesley can feel himself fading, and his hand falls and the phone clacks against the concrete skittering away from him. His last thought is regret of the inconvenience and worry this will cause Fisk.

 

Fisk is sitting on the black couch in his living room, browsing the news on his tablet, when his phone rings. He is momentarily irritated before he looks at the name on the screen.

“Yes, Wesley?”

There is a loud clatter and nothing else. “Wesley, is everything all right?”

No response. Wesley has always been meticulous and careful, so the chances that this call is accidental are slim to none; there is something wrong.

Fisk recalls that Wesley had been on his way to meet with the Russians to warn them to get their shit together, and his stomach drops in a way that he finds irritating. Leave it to Wesley to be the best assistant a man could have, yet cause him so much unneeded emotion. Of course, that isn’t Wesley’s fault, but Fisk’s own emotional weakness.

Fisk throws on a jacket and sends a message to his driver and his bodyguards, and in less than ten minutes he’s on his way to the warehouse on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen where they frequently met with the Russians. He’s already planning what he’ll do to the Ranskahov brothers if they’ve done anything to Wesley, and it makes his fists clench in the promise of violence for the purpose of vengeance. Fisk is not necessarily fond of bloodshed, but when it’s required, he has no trouble doling it out. He thinks of himself as a violent man by calculated choice. He keeps a leash on his awful temper, saving it for moments when violence is needed to get the job done.

They pull to a stop in front of the warehouse, and his bodyguards follow him through the front doors, guns pulled and pointed in front of them. The silence is echoing, making their footsteps sound extra loud in the large building.

The two bodyguards that Wesley had taken with him are dead with bullet holes through their foreheads, and the sight drops something unpleasant in his gut. When Fisk finds Wesley lying in a pool of his own blood, his heart nearly stutters to a stop. He is crouching down next to his assistant in an instant, fingers searching for a pulse at Wesley’s throat as his other hand cradles the back of Wesley’s skull. When he finds the slow stuttering of a weak heart, he turns to Francis. “Locate the nearest hospital.”

Wilson rolls Wesley onto his back and assesses the damage. Wesley’s white button-down is stained deep red on his stomach, the blood spreading from what looks like a stab wound. His face is a mess of bruising, and there’s a large gash running down the right side of his face, seemingly drawn there by a deliberate hand. His breathing is shallow and his skin has an awful pallor that speaks of too much blood lost.

Fisk presses a hand to the wound in Wesley’s stomach and tries to ignore the clench in his chest at how wrong it is to see the normally pristine and collected Wesley so broken.

“Found one, sir. It’s not far.”

Fisk gently scoops his assistant into his arms, cradling him against his chest. Wesley’s head lolls and Fisk is hit with just how vulnerable he looks and how light he feels. Fisk is going to kill the Ranskahov brothers with his bare hands.

Wilson keeps Wesley in his arms during the short ride to the hospital, and then he is out of the car and rushing into the emergency wing.

“Help, we need help!”

Normally, Fisk would not risk a trip to the ER like this, but with Wesley in this state, there’s little choice but professional medical care if he wants Wesley to make it through this.

A bed is quickly wheeled out and doctors are taking Wesley out of his arms and laying him down on it, and then Wesley is taken out of sight. Fisk makes to follow, but is held back by a nurse.

“Sir, you have to stay out here.”

He would argue, but he finds he doesn’t have the energy for it. He merely nods and collapses into a cheap, upholstered waiting room chair. Thoughts of the revenge he will extoll on Wesley’s behalf are the only thing that keeps his mind from returning to the image of Wesley crumpled on the floor. The wooden armrests of the chair creak under his clenched hands.

 

Wesley groans at the harsh light worming under his eyelids and thinks for a split second that he's dead. 

Wesley hopes he’s not dead, if only for the fact that his whole body is aching, and how awful would that be if the afterlife felt like this. Wesley expected Hell to be a _lot_ more painful, and more _exciting._

“Wesley?”

The voice is familiar, breaking through the haze of his thoughts, and he blinks his eyes open to the stark whiteness of the hospital room to see the blurry outline of Wilson Fisk sitting at his bedside.

Wilson must see him squinting, because he reaches to Wesley’s bedside.

“Here, I brought your spare glasses,” Fisk says, helping slide them onto Wesley’s face when Wesley finds his arms heavier than expected. The glasses are slightly tight due to the bandage taped down the side of his face, but they are better than being blind. The room sharpens and Wesley feels the cloying disorientation fade into the dull aching of his abused body. He wonders how terribly bruised his face looks.

“How long have I been out?”

“Two days.” Fisk runs a hand over his face, a rare sign of weakness that he is only showing because they are the only ones in the hospital room. “The doctors weren’t sure if you would survive. You lost a lot of blood.”

Wesley brushes a hand over the bandages wrapped tightly around his abdomen. “This hasn’t caused…complications?”

“We are no longer working with the Russians,” is Fisk’s response.

Wesley thought as much. “The Ranskahov brothers clearly underestimated you. They thought that by beating me, they would be sending you a message that would somehow garner respect.” Wesley had been correct in his original assumption of the Russian mob, it seems. They are heavy handed and quick to act emotionally.

“I was planning on getting rid of the Russians anyways, but this just gave me the incentive to act. The Ranskahovs will no longer be giving _anyone_ trouble.”

Wesley doesn’t ask how Fisk killed them, but he can’t help but wonder if he killed them himself or hired someone else to do it. The distinction seems important, somehow.  

“I apologize for any inconvenience this incident has caused.” Wesley likes his side of the operations to run smoothly, and he hates that it is because of him that Fisk is sitting in a hospital room instead of running Hell’s Kitchen.  

Fisk clenches his jaw in a way that shows he’s holding back fury. Wesley has become skilled at reading Fisk’s expressions and body language over the years of working for him, to the point that Wesley can read what the man wants before he even speaks. It has come in handy many times.

“You nearly died,” is Fisk’s only response, looking down at where his hands are resting on his knees. “I’m told the wound on your stomach and the gash on your face will probably scar.”

Wesley takes a deep breath, but finds that the motion tugs at the stitches in his stomach and agitates his healing rib. “Our job is dangerous. It’s surprising that something like this hasn’t happened earlier, honestly. It was a mistake on my part, for being too cheeky with them.”

Wilson’s brows are drawn together when he looks back up at Wesley. “You need to carry an actual weapon from now on, and I’d like you to take at least three competent bodyguards with you at all times.”

Wesley opens his mouth to respond, but Fisk continues speaking.

“You are important to me, Wesley. I don’t want to see you dead from something that could have been preventable.”

Wesley doesn’t tell Fisk that he’s been prepared to die in this line of work for several years now. He knows the risks he takes, and he knows that with the types of people he deals with, one of them will use him one day to get to Fisk, and they won’t stop until Wesley is dead. Wilson Fisk is a smart man, and he can undoubtedly see this just as clearly as Wesley does. Perhaps this is the first time Wilson can clearly see how vulnerable Wesley really is. Perhaps Fisk didn’t allow himself to see it until now.

Fisk knows that Wesley would die for him, now more than ever, and Wesley knows that Wilson values him as a friend and a confidant, trusts him with his life. Neither of them voice what shimmers in the air between them, but the unsaid words are clear.

“I’ll try my best,” Wesley replies instead.

A pained smile graces Fisk’s features, and Wesley can see the way his gaze lingers on the taped-up side of Wesley’s face. “You always do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this was mostly an excuse to imagine Wesley disheveled and covered in blood, but I enjoyed writing it. Hope you enjoyed reading it.


End file.
